


Flight Plans

by AccioBeatles



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: (Basically what you'd expect from the Triwizard Tournament.), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence, Some Humor, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccioBeatles/pseuds/AccioBeatles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Crieff had never won anything. Ever. So when the Triwizard Tournament came to Hogwarts, even Martin himself didn't expect his name to come floating out of the Goblet of Fire - especially up against competition like Douglas Richardson, the suave Slytherin with everything (and everyone) going for him. Probably, he thought miserably in retrospect, that was why it had happened. And now he was doomed to a painful death in front of the entire population of Hogwarts. Hogwarts!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to have a go at a Hogwarts!AU, so here we are! I hope you enjoy it. :)

The Department of Mysteries lay quiet and dark. The final shift of the day had long since ended, and there was nobody around to see the solitary figure step into the room and close the door carefully behind him.

"Lumos," he muttered.

The flickering light at the end of his wand cast a dim glow over the stone floor, shadows bobbing and dancing against the wall as he walked. The object he needed was right there in front of him, just a few feet away. It stood in the very centre of the room, raised up on a small podium, and protected by only a few cursory enchantments. The man dispensed with the protective spells with just a couple of swishes of his wand. Oh, it was almost too easy.

His lips twisted into a smile as he looked down at the Goblet of Fire. Orange flames curled against its golden sides, licking at the metal even after decades of disuse. It had stood untouched for many years, locked away in a corner of the Department of Mysteries, but that was all going to change now. The man extinguished the light at the end of his wand with a casual, "Nox," and closed his eyes to concentrate. He allowed his mind to clear, focussing only on the powerful magic that he would need if he wanted to affect the old Goblet. When he raised his wand again, he could almost feel the waves of magic coursing through his arm and his fingers, surrounding the Goblet in a violet haze of light.

It took nearly half an hour to complete all the spells he needed to perform, and the man felt somehow drained by the time he left the Department of Mysteries. But even through his fatigue, he couldn't suppress the smirk that broke out over his face.

The last papers had been signed.

The last plans had been made.

In just a couple of months, the Goblet of Fire would be taken to Hogwarts, and then, his plan could begin.


	2. Arrival

Martin leant his head back against the window of the Hogwarts Express, letting the gentle vibrations of the wheels against the tracks thrum through his skull and down his spine. After a moment, he leant down and pulled his well-thumbed copy of _the Complete Guide to Quidditch_ out of his bag. He opened it carefully, making sure he didn’t bend the spine any more than he already had. His eyes began to skim over the sentences, but he only really took in disjointed words here and there – _Bludger_ , _Seeker_ , _foul_. Instead, for the seventh time so far that trip, he found himself glancing down at his own chest. His fingers came up to skate over the smooth metal of the badge he’d already pinned neatly to his collar, and he smiled.

The badge was a shiny silver colour, inscribed with the letters ‘QC’, and in the short time that Martin had owned it, it had already become his most prized possession. He’d polished it so many times over the holidays that Caitlin had eventually complained that one day soon, she was going to need sunglasses just to look at him. Even then, it was only when she threatened to ‘superglue the damn badge’ to his fingers that he put it lovingly away in its case.

Reluctantly, Martin dragged his gaze away from his beautiful badge – after carefully using the corner of his sleeve to smooth away a few smudges – and returned to his book. After all, as the new Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, it was imperative that he memorised all seven hundred Quidditch fouls, and if at all possible, made sure that his team did the same. Just as Martin was attempting to commit the book’s description of blagging to memory, the door to his compartment crashed open, and a blur of motion that looked rather like a small whirlwind toppled through.

“Hi, Martin!” said the whirlwind.

Martin took a moment to catch his breath before replying. “Hello, Arthur.”

Arthur skidded to a halt just inside the door, and only narrowly avoided crashing into Martin’s legs. He dropped his trunk onto the floor, tumbling down into the seat next to Martin. He was clutching a metal cage to his chest, inside of which there perched a cream-coloured ball of fluff that Arthur insisted was an owl. Martin had his doubts about the owl’s abilities; it had almost passed out in Martin’s bedroom after delivering a letter from Arthur that summer, and had required three days of rest before making a return journey. The owl let out a hoot of indignation as her cage jolted in Arthur’s arms, and Arthur poked his finger through the bars of the cage to rub the top of her head.

“Good girl, Snoopadoop.” Snoopadoop blinked large amber eyes up at him, and gave Arthur’s finger a nibble.

Arthur turned towards Martin, grinning widely. His Hufflepuff tie was already askew round his neck, his collar sticking up on one side. His brown eyes had a slightly manic gleam to them that Martin had learned to associate with the beginnings of terms. Even after five years around Arthur, that look struck dread into Martin’s heart. It truly did. Martin, fearing for the safety of his book, put it back in his bag.

“So, did you have a good holiday?” Arthur asked, his head bobbing up and down.

“Not bad, no.” Martin inflated his chest slightly, hoping the gleam of his badge might catch Arthur’s eye. It did.

Arthur’s beam somehow grew even more intense. “Wow, Quidditch captain! That’s brilliant, Skip!”

“Yeah, I know! The old captain, Roger something, he decided he didn’t want to play any more after he took that Bludger to the face last year, so they picked me. Anyway, how was your summer?”

“It was brilliant!” Arthur’s eyes widened. “Mum says there’s going to be some really exciting news this year, and that I mustn’t tell anyone about it because it’s a big secret and- Oops.”

“What big secret?”

“Well, it’s- I can’t- I mean- I wasn’t meant to-” Arthur shot Martin a pleading look, as his cheeks began to go red.

“Arthur…”

Arthur studiously attempted to avoid eye contact with Martin for all of two seconds, before his resolve broke. “Mum wouldn’t tell me the details anyway,” he said very quickly, “but she says it’s a massive thing and the Ministry’s been organising it all summer and it’s going to be _brilliant_! Well, no, she said it was going to be ‘a lot of fuss and paperwork’, but I think it sounds good!”

“Arthur, you don’t even know what it is yet.”

“No, but they’re going to tell us this evening. At the feast. Anyway, don’t tell anyone, because I wasn’t meant to say anything yet.”

“I won’t.”

“Thanks. Mum’ll kill me if everyone finds out.” They sat in silence for a moment, until Arthur said, “How were your O.W.L. results?”

“Not bad.” Martin had managed to get a decent handful of ‘Acceptables’ and ‘Exceeds Expectations’, which he thought he’d definitely earned after spending the majority of last year revising almost to the point of nervous breakdown. He’d received just one ‘Dreadful’, for Divination. But he’d known he was doomed in Divination from the moment he’d spilt boiling tea on his examiner, lost the tea leaves somewhere on the floor and attempted to interpret the bottom of the mug instead. (“I’m seeing- um- a lot of white? I think- I think it’s going to be foggy. Or maybe snowy. Or- or perhaps- I think you might be going to go blind…”) The examiner had not seemed impressed, though that could have been because of the scalding tea dripping down her forehead.

But in any case, it wasn’t O.W.L.s that Martin needed if he wanted to fly; no, it was experience and natural aptitude, and that was a lot harder to come by. His hand brushed across his captain’s badge again, and he allowed himself a tiny smile.

“Mine weren’t too bad either,” said Arthur cheerfully. “I got As in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts – and Muggle Studies, thanks to you helping me. And I even got an E in Herbology! Oh, and an A in Care of Magical Creatures.”

“That’s great, Arthur.”

“I know! Professor Shipwright usually only lets people take Care of Magical Creatures at N.E.W.T. level if they get an E, but Mum talked to him, and he says he’ll take me this year anyway, because he thinks I would have got an E if I hadn’t got burnt when I tried to stroke that one ashwinder in the exam. He said he’s very impressed by my attitude towards magical creatures.” Arthur beamed proudly.

“What- what did you get in Potions, in the end?”

Arthur looked slightly sheepish. “I got a T,” he said. He perked up slightly, and added, “I didn’t even realise people got Ts any more! Mum said she hasn’t seen a student get a T in ages, and I should be proud. Though I’m not sure she meant it.”

No, Martin didn’t think she did mean it.

“Professor Birling wasn’t very pleased, apparently.”

“No, I can imagine he wouldn’t be.”

“Mum says he called me- what was it? Oh yeah, ‘an abhorrent half-wit who shouldn’t be trusted to boil a kettle’. I think that was it. But she said he’s incapable of brewing anything that doesn’t come out of a distillery, so he has no right to complain.” Arthur paused thoughtfully. “I didn’t completely understand what she meant.”

Professor Birling’s relative expertise aside, Arthur’s Potions O.W.L. had been quite a memorable failure. A shudder ran through Martin’s body, as he remembered the fiasco of the practical exam. They’d had to evacuate the whole Dungeon after Arthur’s cauldron had exploded, and it was three hours before they’d been allowed back in to finish off the exam. Even then, Martin had found the acrid smell of burning and the black marks on the ceiling oddly distracting. Not that that was the worst of it…

“Did that examiner ever recover, do you know?”

“I’m not sure.” Arthur trailed off. “I went to St Mungo’s in the summer to bring him apology flowers. I don’t know if he recognised me; he started yelling and a Healer had to run in to calm him down before I really got very close.”

“It’s just a shame he was standing right by your cauldron when it went off,” said Martin, still lost in the memories of sprays of corrosive acid, and sizzling furniture. “I don’t know why you thought it would be a good idea to add Bubotuber pus to a Calming Draught.”

“I thought it would give it more of a kick!” said Arthur indignantly.

“Yes, that’s not exactly the point of a Calming Draught…”

* * *

 

Throughout the rest of the train journey, the carriage got gradually more and more crowded, as a selection of Hufflepuffs popped their heads into the compartment to say hello to Arthur, and didn’t quite manage to leave again. By the time the Hogwarts Express finally ground to a halt in Hogsmeade station, Martin was pressed into one corner of the compartment, his back against the side of the train and his nose buried in his book as he tried to ignore Arthur laughing with his friend George. George currently had his cheeks puffed out in what appeared to be an impression of a grape, complete with a rather nifty piece of Transfiguration that added a purple sheen to his skin. (George had obviously been practising - last year he'd only been able to manage a light pink.)

As the train slowed, Martin dragged his trunk out of the overhead luggage rack and made to pick his way through the mess of sweet wrappers strewn across the floor. George thumped him cheerfully on the back as he passed, and Martin let out an ‘oof’ of surprise, his cheeks flushing. Once he’d eventually managed to push his way through the mass of students on the Hogwarts Express, Martin hauled his trunk out onto the platform, Arthur by his side. As soon as he stepped through the train door, he was greeted by the not-altogether-welcome voice of Arthur’s mother, the Flying teacher, Madame Knapp-Shappey.

“Yes, yes, move along, all of you,” Carolyn was shouting over the noise of the students. “Good Lord, do I have to say it every year? First Years in the boats, everyone else, get in the carriages!”

“Hi, Mum!” called Arthur cheerfully.

“Not right now, Arthur,” she said through gritted teeth, as a pair of Third Years knocked into her back. “Yes, onto the carriages, just like last term,” she snapped at them. “Martin, I see you’re already flaunting that captain’s badge like it's a medal.”

“Erm-”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t have made you Quidditch captain if I’d had any choice about it – Merlin knows I haven’t forgotten that spectacular fall you made at the end of last year-”

“It wasn’t a fall, it was a firm landing.”

“-but sadly for Ravenclaw house, there wasn’t anyone better.”

Martin took a moment to wrap his head around this. “Thank you. I think.”

“Right, you’ve both dawdled enough. Onto the carriage, chop chop!”

“See you at the feast, Mum!” Arthur grabbed the sleeve of Martin’s robe and pulled him onto one of the horseless carriages, trunks in tow. He gazed out at the lake, eyes bright. “This is brilliant! I’ve missed Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Martin.

* * *

 

Over the long summer holiday, Martin had forgotten quite how much food Arthur was capable of fitting into his mouth in one go. His plate was piled high with a bit of everything the school had on offer, and he’d just managed to shove two roast potatoes into his mouth at the same time. The Fat Friar had taken to floating at the edge of the table, watching Arthur with what looked like a combination of jealousy and awe. A pair of new Ravenclaws on the other side of the table gaped openly.

“How are you eating all of this?” Martin said. “I swear you had at least twenty chocolate frogs on the train.”

It took a few seconds before Arthur was able to speak around his mouthful of potato. “It’s a feast!”

“A feast, Arthur, not a challenge.”

Arthur made a muffled noise of defence, but before he could say anything, the headmaster stood up and cleared his throat. The glowing flames of the candles caught his short, greying hair, threading it with specks of light that danced as the headmaster’s head bobbed.

“Welcome back,” said Professor Dalton, smiling down the tables, “and welcome, to our new students. The beginning of a school year is always an exciting time, but this one, particularly so.”

With a massive effort, Arthur gulped down the rest of his mouthful. He dug an elbow into Martin’s ribs, whispering excitedly, “This is it!”

Arthur wasn't the only one talking; judging by the way the majority of the Hufflepuff table was muttering to each other, Arthur's news had quickly spread. Secrets never seemed to stay secret for long in Hogwarts, particularly when Arthur was involved in the keeping of said secrets. Martin wasn’t sure if it was just an illusion, caused by the candlelight reflecting off of Professor Dalton’s glasses, but even the headmaster’s eyes seemed to be glinting with a barely contained thrill.

“This year,” the headmaster continued, “I am delighted to announce that, for the first time in four decades, Hogwarts will be playing host to the Triwizard Tournament.”

Whispers instantly swept around the hall, as heads turned to their neighbours. Martin glanced up towards the staff table, where the teachers too were engaged in a buzz of conversation. Carolyn was muttering something to Professor Shipwright, one eyebrow raised. She didn’t look best pleased, though then again, she never did. He could feel Arthur next to him practically radiating exhilaration, his knees joggling up and down so that his whole body almost vibrated.

“What’s the Triwizard Tournament?” Martin asked him.

“I don’t know, but it sounds great!”

Dalton held up a hand, waiting for the murmurs to die down, before he carried on speaking. “This tournament will be a fantastic opportunity to meet students from our sister schools, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and to break the boundaries of country that have separated us for so long. I know that Hogwarts will do me proud, and that you’ll extend every courtesy to our guests while they’re here.” His eyes gleamed. “And of course, whoever wins the Triwizard Cup will have fame and fortune ahead of them.”

The Triwizard Cup… Just for a moment, Martin allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to win such a thing. In his mind’s eye, he hoisted a shining trophy up into the air, surrounded by the applause and whoops of his fellow students.

He shook his head, dragging himself out of the fantasy. It was ridiculous, he told himself, he didn’t even know what this tournament was. Besides, he never won anything. The winner of the Triwizard Tournament wasn’t going to be some scrawny ginger Ravenclaw who’d been forced to sleep in the corridor nine times because he couldn’t figure out the riddle to get into the common room. It was stupid to imagine that he stood a chance.

“-will arrive in October,” Dalton was saying, as Martin regained concentration, “and you’ll all know more then. But for now, good night!”

There was a sudden bustle and scraping of benches as the students rose and began to make their way to the exit of the Great Hall. Arthur hopped up from his stool and dashed back over to the Hufflepuff table, where the rest of his house was milling around on their way towards their common room.

“Night, Skip,” he called.

“Yeah, night, Arthur.” Martin blinked, still sitting at the table with his chin resting on one hand. Shaking his head again, he pulled himself up and followed the other Ravenclaws out of the Hall.


	3. The Goblet

Sixth Year, as it turned out, was really quite a lot harder than Fifth Year. When Martin wasn’t feverishly practising Elemental Transfiguration on the common room fire, he was in the library, trying to wrap his head around the latest piece of Charms theory. And it didn’t help that Arthur kept raving to him about how Professor Shipwright had shown him this, that or the other adorable animal in Care of Magical Creatures. Even the day that Arthur had come back with three long scratches down his arm, he still looked happier and less stressed than Martin.

Then, on top of all that, there were the Quidditch try-outs to organise. For some reason, the two hour long theoretical exam Martin had written was met with disgust by his potential new teammates. Out of everyone who applied, only two diligent Second Year students actually filled out serious answers. One of them flew so atrociously in the practical exam that Martin couldn’t bring himself to consider him, and the other, despite her competent flying, turned out to be a Gryffindor who’d confused the two sign-up sheets. Eventually, Martin was forced to swallow his pride and discount the written exam. His new Chaser was a Fourth Year girl who’d filled out her paper with the most sarcastic answers she could come up with – Martin was actually slightly afraid of her now, but she flew well – and his Keeper was a boy in his Fifth Year who’d transfigured his test into a Muggle-style paper aeroplane and left. Martin had to give him credit for the excellent aerodynamic design of the paper aeroplane, but all the same, he was already dreading the Herculean task of trying to instil some discipline into his team.

Martin had so much on his mind that, by the time September had passed and October was drawing to a close, he had quite forgotten about the Triwizard Tournament. As it happened, 30th October, the day that the other schools were due to arrive, was also his seventeenth birthday. When the morning dawned bleak and drizzly as usual, it took him a while to remember what everybody was so excited about. There was a tense hum of conversation in the common room and the hallways as Martin made his way towards the Great Hall for breakfast, and even the portraits seemed somehow on edge. But it was only when he passed a pair of Gryffindors boys who were testing each other on French chat-up lines that he put two and two together.

“Morning, Skip!” called Arthur, as Martin entered the Great Hall. He quickly shifted to the side to make room for Martin at the Hufflepuff table.

“Morning.” Martin sat down slightly cautiously; the Hufflepuff table always gave him the unnerving impression of being in a massive bee hive, all filled with chattering students decked out in yellow and black.

“Happy birthday!” Arthur said. “Here, I got you this.”

He thrust a brightly wrapped, lumpy package at Martin, who had to blink rapidly several times as his eyes adjusted to the lurid colours. Little pinpoint spots on the packaging appeared to be flashing different shades of green, red and blue, so quickly it was overwhelming to look at.

“Phil helped a bit with the charms on the wrapping paper,” Arthur said cheerfully. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

“That’s- that’s certainly one way of putting it. Thanks, Arthur.”

Martin gently eased the wrapping paper off of the gift, to reveal-

“Is that… a hat?” he said tentatively.

“Yeah! I thought, now that you’re a captain, you should have a hat. Everybody needs a hat. And now your team will always be able to spot you!”

That, at least, was definitely true. The hat was a towering monstrosity of blue and bronze tinsel, and - Martin prodded it cautiously - yes, that was a string of fairy lights, twinkling out of the depths of what looked like about half of the Christmas decorations Arthur owned. And Arthur had collected a lot of Christmas decorations over the years. As touched as Martin was that Arthur had spent time making a present for him, he decided then and there that the hat would never see the light of day. He wasn’t sure his teammates would survive the shock of seeing their commanding leader in- in that.

“Thank you, Arthur, that’s really- erm- really thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome! Oh, are you going to try it on?”

Arthur’s grin was so dazzling that Martin found he didn’t have it in him to refuse. Slowly, with a sense of impending doom and loss of respect settling over him, he raised the hat and placed it on his head.

“How does it look?”

“It’s beautiful!”

That, of course, was the moment that the gang of Slytherin Seventh Years chose to walk past the Hufflepuff table. Douglas Richardson, the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, was at the head of the group. He smirked at Martin.

“Is that what you’re planning on wearing to welcome Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to our school?” He raised one eyebrow. “Ladies and gentlemen, one of the finest students Ravenclaw has to offer.”

Martin ripped the hat off of his head, blood rushing to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but by the time his brain had remembered how to form words, Richardson was sauntering off, laughing to one of his friends. Martin felt himself flush harder as he realised that they were probably laughing about him. He glared down at his cereal bowl and poked moodily at his cornflakes.

“Don’t mind Douglas, Skip,” Arthur said bracingly.

“You _know_ him?”

“Not exactly… I met him a few times though, outside of Mum’s office after she gave him a detention. She gives him a lot of detentions.”

Martin couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of satisfaction at that; detention with Carolyn was not something for the faint-hearted. He raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure he can’t be as marvellous as he makes out. He must have _something_ wrong with him. What’s he like, Arthur?”

“Oh, Douglas is brilliant!” Arthur paused to munch on a piece of toast, and then added conversationally, “He owns my broomstick.”

“He owns your _broomstick_? How?”

“Don’t tell Mum,” said Arthur quickly. “Anyway, he still lets me ride it. He just sometimes uses it to train his Quidditch team, I think. Once, one of the Slytherin Chasers broke his broom before a match, and he actually used mine in the game! My broomstick, playing in a game! Well, Douglas’ broomstick. Or does it still count as mine? I’m not sure – if you still ride a broomstick and it was originally yours, does it-”

“Yes, if we could return to my original question, how did Douglas Richardson become the owner of your broomstick?”

Arthur looked a bit sheepish. “He bet me he’d get another detention from Mum within the week, and I didn’t have any money, so we used my broomstick instead.”

“Oh, Arthur… He probably just got himself one deliberately.”

“No, actually, he didn’t! It turns out Mum had already given him three weeks worth of daily detentions. So he didn’t even have to cheat!” Arthur actually seemed to look impressed by this.

Martin glanced over at the Slytherin table, where Richardson appeared to be telling a very funny joke, judging by the guffaws of everyone around him. Martin felt his face heat up again, and he turned away. Luckily, before he had time to brood any more, he was interrupted by the owl post. Hundreds of owls swooped in over the four tables, plummeting down into their owners’ laps with letters and newspapers. A large grey Hogwarts owl that Martin had used to send a letter home a couple of days ago dropped down onto the table in front of him. It held out its foot long enough for Martin to untie a large envelope, and then took off again. It swooped high up towards the ceiling, which today looked grey and cloudy, with the rather surreal sight of raindrops lashing down towards them and then fading away into the air.

“I wonder if the owls ever forget the sky’s not real and crash into it,” said Arthur, in one of his more philosophical tones. “I probably would.”

Martin wasn’t listening; he was too busy reading the birthday cards from his family. Simon had sent him a rambling anecdote about his own seventeenth birthday. Martin’s eyes barely skimmed over it, but it seemed to end in copious amounts of alcohol. From Caitlin, there was a terse reminder not to get in trouble when she wasn’t there to bail him out of it, even if ‘wizards have the ridiculous idea that you’re an adult at seventeen’. Martin was pretty sure she was still sore about the fact that he had become an adult just a few months after her. He carefully propped her card up behind his mother’s. _Happy Birthday, love. I can’t believe you’ve grown up so fast! Dad would be very proud._

* * *

 

Halfway through the day, when Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were due to arrive, lessons ground to a halt. Martin could hardly believe Professor Dalton needed the entire _school_ as a welcoming committee, but he was only too relieved to escape from his Potions lesson early – his Elixir to Induce Euphoria had just turned a nasty shade of maroon, and he wasn’t looking forward to Professor Birling’s expression when he saw it – so he allowed himself to be swept along in the tide of students as they made their way to the grounds outside the castle. He leant against the wall at the back of the crowd, waiting for some sign of the other schools to appear. However, the path up to the school was still empty and quiet.

“This is exciting, isn’t it, Skip?”

Martin jumped as Arthur appeared by his shoulder, seemingly out of thin air.

“It’s not all that exciting. They’re just students like us,” Martin said, rolling his eyes.

Arthur was still bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, but I bet at least I’ll get to make some new friends.”

Martin put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, squinting out into the deserted grounds. “Only if they actually get here.”

Before he’d even finished his sentence, there was a gasp from somewhere at the front of the crowd, and a particularly tiny First Year boy pointed wildly in the direction of the Black Lake. Martin frowned, leaning forwards and scanning the surface of the lake. It took him a second to notice the stream of bubbles bursting up to the surface, and just a moment later, Arthur’s elbow collided painfully with his ribs as the prow of a boat erupted from the lake. Rivulets of water streamed down its sides as it rose gracefully out into the air, glistening in harsh daylight.

“Wow…” breathed Arthur.

Before Martin could reply, a hatchway swung open at the front of the ship, and a tall, dark-haired man wrapped in a thick coat began to climb out. He beckoned impatiently towards the ship, firing off a string of words in a language Martin didn’t recognise, and his students began to follow him out. As they reached dry land, they moved off to stand to one side, where they huddled together, talking quietly.

“Professor Petrov,” said Dalton, leaping forwards to shake the headmaster’s hand.

Petrov inclined his head. “Dalton. I see Madame Lambert and Beauxbatons have not yet arrived?” His deep voice had a strong, lilting accent.

Dalton glanced at his watch. “They should be here any minute now.”

Without another word, the two men turned and stared up into the sky. Martin, feeling slightly confused, followed their gaze, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Just as his eyes were beginning to water, he saw something approaching from off in the distance. There were several cries of astonishment from the gathered students, as a huge horse-drawn carriage began to spiral down from the sky. The hooves of the large, winged horses hit the ground next to the Black Lake, and the carriage just barely came to a halt before reaching the water. What Martin wouldn’t give to take a ride in something like that…

Professor Dalton strode round to the side of the carriage, and slid a door open. Barely after he’d had a chance to step aside, a pair of students stumbled out, looking faintly queasy. They were followed by a small elderly woman, whose sharp blue eyes swept over the crowd, her gaze seeming to pierce Martin even as it slid over him. She tapped one of the students on the shoulder and said something to him in rapid French. He nodded and stepped away, still looking rather pale-faced and shaky.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting fractionally in a smile. “Eet is nice to see ‘Ogwarts again.”

“Thank you, Madame.” He turned back towards Petrov. “Allow me to show you both the school. Your students will be allocated common rooms to stay in while we are here.” He glanced quickly around the crowd. “Shappey, can you show the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students to the Great Hall?”

“Yes, sir!”

Martin could practically see a frisson of excitement ripple through Arthur’s body, as he slipped through the throng towards the – slightly apprehensive – Beauxbatons and Durmstrang pupils.

“Good afternoon,” Martin heard him say. “My name is Arthur, and it’s my pleasure to be being your guide today on this day. If yourselves would kindly follow myself, it will be my very great honour to accompany you to the Great Hall.”

Arthur led the group past Martin, grinning practically from ear to ear. He was already turning to chat happily to one of the Durmstrang boys, although a couple of the girls from Beauxbatons looked more than a little confused, and seemed to be keeping their distance from Arthur.

* * *

 

Martin didn’t see any of the foreign students again until that evening, at dinner. They mostly stayed in their own little groups, talking quietly to each other at the various house tables. Madame Lambert and Professor Petrov had seats on either side of Professor Dalton at the staff table, and the three had been immersed in conversation right the way through the meal.

Martin picked warily at his food. The kitchens were serving Bulgarian and French specialties, in honour of their guests, and Martin wasn’t totally sure what the dish he’d selected was made of. Arthur had no such qualms; he’d piled his plate high with a bit of everything and polished it off completely, and he was now eyeing Martin’s rather wistfully. Martin let out a huff of air and scraped his food off onto Arthur’s plate.

“Thanks, Skip!”

However, just as Arthur picked up his fork, Professor Dalton stood up, and all the food vanished from the tables. Looking momentarily crestfallen, Arthur put his cutlery down again.

“Good evening,” Dalton said. “First, let me say how lovely it is to see all the schools getting to know each other-” Martin looked around sceptically. He had yet to see a single person hold a conversation with one of the Beauxbatons or Durmstrang students, unless you counted the few who’d attempted to chat them up, “-but there is still one important – ah – participant, who has yet to be introduced.”

Dalton walked over to the door leading onto the Entrance Hall. Next to the door frame, there was a tall object covered in a silky black cloth, which Martin had utterly failed to notice. Dalton lifted his wand, giving it a flick, and the black material dissolved into wisps of smoke. Martin craned his neck up to get a better view, peering over the heads of the other Ravenclaws. The object seemed to be a stone basin, mounted on a pedestal. He could just made out the glow of red flames, dancing at the lip of the bowl.

“This,” said Dalton, “is the Goblet of Fire. It is our impartial judge, which will decide which three people are to participate in the Triwizard Tournament. If you wish to be considered, and you are over seventeen, you can write your name on a slip of parchment and put it in the Goblet. Tomorrow evening, the Goblet will select its three contestants. But be warned: the tournament is not to be taken lightly, and putting your name in the Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding contract. If you are chosen, you must participate.”

For a second, there was complete silence as Dalton scanned the hall, before the low murmur of voices started up again. Dalton quietly retreated back to the staff table, where he sat quietly with his hands folded in front of him. People began to trickle out of the Great Hall, casting swift glances at the Goblet as they passed by.

The first person to put her name in the Goblet was a girl from Gryffindor, who Martin recognised from his Transfiguration class. She marched over to the Goblet, flanked by a couple of friends, and scribbled her name on a spare bit of parchment. Without even a moment’s hesitation, she shot a grin at the watching people, folded the parchment, and threw it in. The flames burned green, swallowing up the parchment, as the assembled crowd burst into applause.

That first name opened the floodgates. Soon enough, there was a gang of Seventh Years, along with a couple of older Sixth Years, pressing around the Goblet to put in their names. All the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had gathered at the Goblet of Fire too, ready to enter their names.

“Come on, Arthur, let’s get out of here,” said Martin, as a nervous-looking Ravenclaw dropped in his name and a chorus of whoops rang out around the hall.

“Oh, but Martin, it’s so exciting!”

“Well, I’m not hanging around to watch-” Another round of cheers cut him off, “-while a bunch of conceited show-offs play up to the crowd.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, before saying, “Yeah, OK, you’re probably right.”

It took a while for Martin to press his way through the group of people by the Goblet. He kept treading on people’s feet, and it didn’t help that he had to stop to grab Arthur by the sleeve when he dithered next to the Goblet. As he passed by a group of Slytherin Seventh Years, Martin noticed that Douglas Richardson was among their number. Richardson scrawled his name in swooping, ostentatious letters, on the corner of some parchment, and dropped it almost casually into the Goblet. One of his friends clapped him on the back as the customary round of applause broke out and the green flames surrounded the paper. A burst of irritation swelled in Martin’s chest as he caught a glimpse of Richardson’s smirk.

“Step aside, please,” Martin said tetchily. “Some of us have places to get to.”

“Oooh,” sneered Richardson’s friend, as Martin pushed past him. "Hark at the Ravenclaw."

Martin ignored him, darting through the door before anyone else could make a comment. He walked in silence for the next few minutes, fuming internally, with Arthur trotting along by his side. It was only when they were nearing the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room that Arthur spoke.

“I wish I could put my name in the Goblet of Fire.”

“Why would you want to do that? It sounds awful.”

“No, it’d be fun!” Arthur smiled, his eyes focussed on something only he could see. “Imagine all those people watching you win the Triwizard Cup! Brilliant!” He turned to Martin, a sudden look of astonishment coming over his face. “You should enter, Skip.”

“What? Me?” Martin let out a slightly strangled laugh.

“Yeah, you’re seventeen now! You could be Triwizard champion!”

“So I am…” Martin shook himself. “Arthur, I never win anything. Never.”

Arthur shrugged. “You could win this.”

Martin was silent for a moment, deep in his own thoughts, until they reached the Hufflepuff common room.

“Bye, Skip. Happy birthday.” Arthur waved at him.

“Yeah, good night. See you in the morning,” said Martin distractedly.

Hands in his pockets, he turned and headed towards Ravenclaw tower, his mind still racing.

* * *

 

When the morning of Halloween arrived, Martin was exhausted. He’d lain awake all night, but for a few hours of fitful dozing, obsessively turning over the pros and cons of the Triwizard Tournament in his head. Sometime around two in the morning, he’d actually begun to make a list by the light of his wand, until his dorm-mate, Karl, had thrown a pillow at his head and groaned at him to “either get some sleep, or go down to the common room, will you?” By this point, he almost wished Arthur had never reminded him that he was old enough for the wretched tournament.

At half past five, Martin decided that he had little chance of getting any more sleep that night, so he quietly dressed and padded downstairs to the Ravenclaw common room. He slumped into an armchair by the fire, raking his hands through his ginger hair and trying to work out what to do.

_It was a stupid idea. Martin Crieff, the Hogwarts champion? What a joke. He could barely even keep up with his lessons, let alone a tournament.  
_

_But what if? What if he_ was _the champion? What if he_ won _? Nobody would be able to look through him again. He’d be renowned all over Hogwarts._

_Maybe so, but were “what if”s worth entering a binding contract for? Of course not._

Martin got up, and started pacing around the common room.

_If he didn’t at least put his name in the Goblet, he’d never stand a chance, and he’d always be wondering what might have been. Come on, what was the worst that could happen?_

_A lot! A lot could happen! What if somebody saw him trying to slip his name in without being noticed? He’d never live it down. And worse, what if he actually became Hogwarts champion? He’d be humiliated publicly, or injured, or even killed._

_Or he could win._

_No he couldn’t. He was Martin Crieff, he never won anything. And anyway, even if he put his name in the damn Goblet, there was no chance of it coming out._

_If there was no chance of it coming out, then what did he have to lose?_

_…Nothing._

Martin was barely even aware of his feet carrying him down to the Great Hall, until he found himself in front of the Goblet of Fire, one hand pressed against the cool stone basin. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, and pulled a piece of parchment and a quill out of his bag. He wrote down his name on the edge, and ripped off that bit of the parchment. He held it over the flames, his fingers tight and white-knuckled around it, his hand trembling and his heart hammering in his throat.

He took a quick glance around him. Nobody was there; it was safe to put in his name.

Still, he hesitated. He could turn around and go now, and nobody would be any the wiser. One of his feet took half a step back towards the Entrance Hall, towards safety, but something stopped him. The image that had haunted him all night flashed into his head again – himself, holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, the grounds filled with cheering students, all calling his name. Martin took another quick breath, almost a gasp, and unclenched his fingers. The parchment bearing his name fluttered into the Goblet. The flames glowed green, darting up around the parchment, and had consumed it within a split second. Martin choked back a giddy laugh, staggering away from the Goblet as the magnitude of what he had began to sink in.

Still, the chances of his name being the one that was chosen were slim to none. Especially when there was competition like Douglas Richardson. It was completely illogical to waste time worrying about it, when really, he already knew what the outcome would be.

* * *

 

However illogical it was, Martin couldn’t help but worry. He went through the whole day in a daze, with the surreal feeling that he was on the edge of a dream, about to wake up. In Potions, he accidentally added twice as many dragonfly wings to his Strengthening Solution than he was meant to, and had to endure Professor’s Birling’s rant about how he was an odious little parasite, leaching off the work of others, who would eventually get his comeuppance when somebody actually made him drink one of his potions. His Charms lesson was, if anything, even worse. Martin wasn’t concentrating when he attempted the Aguamenti spell, and somehow – nobody could figure out how he’d managed it – he’d flicked his wand in Arthur’s direction and caused him to spout water from both nostrils. Luckily, once Professor Hale had worked out a counter-charm and Arthur had regained the ability to speak, he seemed to think the whole thing was fantastic.

Eventually, the hellish day of lessons came to an end, and Martin headed off to the Halloween feast. He sat quietly at the Ravenclaw table, trying to control his nerves long enough to keep down some food, while Karl poked fun at him from the seat on his left. By the time the feast came to an end, and the Goblet of Fire was placed in pride of place at the front of the hall, Martin was feeling positively sick.

“Calm down, calm down, calm down,” he muttered to himself. He took a few deep breaths and swallowed, but somehow he only felt worse. “Oh God.”

At this point, he wasn’t even sure any more what he was nervous about. He wanted his name to be picked… right? But he also really, really didn’t want it to be picked. He looked over to the Hufflepuff table, his breaths shallow and quick. Arthur caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. Martin’s stomach began to settle again, ever so slightly, only to plummet to the ground when Dalton stood up.

“I know you’ve all been waiting for this moment,” he said, “so I will not keep you waiting any longer. The Goblet of Fire will give the name of each champion in turn. If you are the champion for your school, please go and wait for further instructions in the room we’ve set up at the end of the Great Hall.” He gestured towards an unobtrusive door behind him. He took a moment to smile out at the tables of students, and raised an eyebrow. “Now, it only remains for me to wish you all good luck.”

Dalton stepped towards the Goblet of Fire, and touched his wand to its brim. Martin’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his ribcage. His knees were shaking underneath the table, and adrenalin prickled at his fingers and toes.

“Merlin…” he breathed.

All eyes in the hall were fixed on the Goblet. For a moment, the fire flickered orange, and then, in a great whoosh, green flames leapt up towards the sky. A piece of parchment shot from the fire, trailing sparks as it flew through the air. Dalton’s hand leapt up to catch it.

“The Durmstrang champion is Andrei Dobrev.”

Applause echoed out over the Great Hall, as a thickset boy with curly brown hair stood up from his seat at the Gryffindor table. Looking pale-faced and a little shocked, he darted up to the front of the hall, shook Dalton’s hand, and disappeared into the little room.

Only a few seconds passed before there was another shot of green fire from the Goblet, and another slip of parchment was thrown into the air.

“The champion for Beauxbatons school is Theresa Gustava-Bonaventura.”

A pretty girl, with olive skin and dark hair, who was sitting a few seats down from Martin on the Ravenclaw table, stood. The group of friends she’d been sitting with cheered loudly as she brushed her hair out of her eyes with one hand and marched down to the front of the hall. Smiling, she shook hands with Dalton and went to join Andrei in the room at the end of the hall.

Martin’s eyes were glued to the Goblet of Fire. The atmosphere in the Great Hall had become more strained in just the few seconds since Theresa had disappeared through the door. The tension was almost palpable. His stomach lurching with a bizarre combination of adrenalin, fear and – was that excitement? – Martin glanced around the Great Hall. Arthur was actually bouncing in his seat, his eyes wide. Over at the Slytherin table, Douglas Richardson was leaning ever so slightly forwards, his body tense and his sharp eyes fixed on the Goblet. The final burst of green fire spiralled up from the basin, and Dalton snatched the third piece of parchment out of the air, unfolding it carefully.

“The Hogwarts champion is Martin Crieff.”

For a split second, Martin couldn’t hear anything except for his own sharp intake of breath and his pulse ringing in his ears. Then, he heard the sound of applause, saw Arthur’s thrilled face over at the Hufflepuff table, and felt Karl’s hand on his arm, pushing him into a standing position. He stumbled blindly to his feet.

_Oh, God._


	4. The Champions

Martin almost tripped over his own feet as he scurried towards the front of the Great Hall, and he was sure his face had turned an unattractive shade of crimson. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he thought the applause sounded strained, as if everybody in the hall believed he’d somehow cheated, that he was a fraud who’d forced his way into the tournament when there were innumerable students better qualified than he was. He was sure he could hear people whispering to each other as he passed. His stomach coiled itself into uncomfortable knots, and he had to force himself to breathe as he stepped up to have his hand shaken by Professor Dalton.

“Well done, Martin,” said Dalton quietly.

“Th-thank you, sir.”

Even Dalton’s eyes, behind their glossy spectacles, seemed to scream a silent accusation at him. With a nervous gulp, Martin walked around him and opened the door to the room at the end of the hall. The moment he stepped through the doorway, a bright flashbulb went off in his face. Martin jumped in surprise, lost his footing and tumbled into the room, only just regaining his balance before he knocked into the girl from Beauxbatons.

“Sorry,” he gasped, blinking his eyes rapidly against the imprint of the flashbulb etched on his retina.

The corner of her mouth lifted, and she raised an eyebrow. “You make quite an entrance.”

“Ah- yes- erm…”

“Hogwarts champion, over here!” called an impatient man’s voice from behind him.

Martin spun on the spot, and another flashbulb flared in his face. When the light faded from his eyes, he saw an elderly wizard standing behind a large camera, a woman next to him holding a quill and a roll of parchment.

“Not much to work with,” the wizard was saying, “but maybe we can make something of him if we touch it up a bit.”

The woman tapped the quill against her chin. “Flame-haired, but with a waif-like figure,” she said. “Yes, I can see our angle now – he’s innocent and vulnerable, but full of hidden strengths.”

“What’s going on?” asked Martin.

“Papers,” said Andrei shortly, stepping out from the corner of the room. “They want a first look at the champions.”

“Oh, I see…”

Martin wasn’t sure he wanted this to be anyone’s first look at him. Even he still wasn’t entirely sure whether he was happy or about to throw up. Having said that, the longer he stood there, the more his stomach seemed to veer towards the latter option. Just then, the door opened again, and Dalton, Petrov and Lambert strode in, accompanied by a middle-aged witch Martin didn’t recognise. The witch glared at the cameraman and journalist and pointed a finger at the door.

“You can get interviews later,” she snapped. “Now isn’t the moment; the champions have important preparations to make.”

The woman with the quill stared levelly back at her, as though she was wondering whether or not to waste time arguing, before she turned to the cameraman and said, “Let’s get going, I think we have enough to be getting on with.”

With a wave of her wand, the equipment folded up and packed itself, impossibly tightly, into a neat little handbag at her side. She threw a quick smile over her shoulder at the three champions, before leaving. The witch Martin didn’t know waited until the door closed, and then pulled a clipboard out of her bag. Martin was slightly startled to see a length of parchment several feet long unfurl itself as she gave the clipboard a shake. Looking completely unfazed, the witch pulled her wand out of her pocket and flicked it. Three hard chairs materialised in front of Martin, Theresa and Andrei.

“Take a seat,” she said.

Martin lowered himself into the chair on the right, his back straight and shoulder muscles tensed. He rubbed at the nape of his neck, his hair tickling the ends of his fingers.

“My name is Madame Lucinda Hackett,” the woman said. “I am the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, at the Ministry of Magic. I will be one of the judges for the Triwizard Tournament, and I’ve been heavily involved in its organisation.” She shuffled the papers on her clipboard and paused, letting her gaze fall on each of the champions in turn. “The tournament has a long and complex history, and with that comes many rules that you, as the champions, are expected to abide by.” She cleared her throat and looked down at the parchment. “First, you are expected to attend publicity meetings when called for. Second…”

But Martin’s mind was elsewhere, still frantically trying to sort through and catalogue the events of the evening. His fingers curled together in his lap as he twisted his hands agitatedly, a nervous tic he’d picked up Merlin knew when. But even as he fidgeted uncomfortably, he could feel the knots of anxiety in his chest starting to loosen, tension draining from shoulders to be replaced by a spark of something like excitement. Again, the picture of the glittering Triwizard Cup filled his mind, the sounds of cheers echoing in his ears.

“Mr Crieff?”

Martin jolted out of his daze. “Oh- umm- sorry, I… What did you say?”

“I said, does everything sound clear?”

“Oh, yes, of course, thank you.”

Hackett looked unconvinced, but she nodded, putting her clipboard back in her bag. Martin cursed himself internally; how did he expect to go through the Triwizard Tournament successfully without being fully briefed on the rules? He’d have to look them up in the library tomorrow, and make sure he had them memorised.

“The first challenge will be held on the seventeenth of November,” said Hackett, snapping her bag shut and standing. “I will see you again then. Good luck.”

“Wait,” said Theresa quickly. “Is there any more information on the first task? How are we meant to prepare?”

“Oh, preparations will not be necessary. The first task is designed to find out how you cope under stress, and how well you think on your feet. Goodnight.” With that, she left the room.

_Preparations will not be necessary_? What kind of advice was that? Any trace of calm he'd been feeling vanished abruptly. Martin practically started hyperventilating on the spot; quick-thinking had never been his strong point. _Oh God, he was going to die in front of the whole school._ Martin took a moment to try to clear his head, making sure he remembered how to breathe. He would just have to find a way to prepare even without any information in advance. He was sure there’d be records of past Triwizard Tournaments, and he could probably figure out more or less what to expect. Yes, that was what he’d do. He forced himself to smile, although it probably looked like more of a grimace, and felt himself begin to relax a little.

“Dobrev, with me,” said Professor Petrov. He gestured towards the door, and Andrei stood quickly to follow him out.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly to Martin and Theresa.

Madame Lambert and Dalton left too, after congratulating Martin and Theresa once again (Martin just about managed to squeak out a thank you) and Martin found himself alone with Theresa. She stood up, stretching, and headed for the door.

“Are you coming?” she said.

“Yes, I suppose so. I mean, yes. Of course.” If he could remember how to work his legs without wobbling off of them.

Martin and Theresa walked together through the Great Hall, which was now quiet and deserted. The ceiling had taken on the appearance of the night sky, an inky black with the normal pinprick stars obscured by cloud. The only light in the hall came from the dim glow of the candles. Martin picked his way around the Slytherin table, almost tripping over one of the stools but managing to catch himself just in time, and held open the door to the Entrance Hall for Theresa.

“What a gentleman,” she said teasingly, giving him a little curtsey as she walked through.

Martin coughed. Blushing, he decided to change the subject. “Which house are you staying with?”

“Slytherin, I think?” Her accent sounded heavy on the word 'Slytherin'.

“Oh, I can show you their common room – it’s just down here.”

“Thank you.”

They walked in silence for a while, until Theresa slowed to a stop in front of Martin and gave his chest a little flick.

“QC? What does that stand for?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, it’s my Quidditch Captain’s badge. I’m the Quidditch Captain for Ravenclaw. I have a badge.”

“I can see that. It’s very shiny.”

“Oh, umm, yes, it is. I polish it once a week, so it doesn’t- I mean- I wouldn’t want it to rust.”

Theresa began to walk again, her eyes sparkling. “Now, I’m sure we can do better than that.”

“Erm… What do you mean?”

“Quidditch Captain! It’s a high honour! You deserve more than a shiny badge. I’ll get you a medal.”

“Oh.” Martin paused. “Thank you?”

“And of course, you should have a medal for being Triwizard champion as well. That definitely qualifies you for a Medal of Valour…”

“It- it does? I don’t remember that being-?”

“And you’ve walked me to the Slytherin common room at night, so for that, you get the Badge of Chivalry and the Protector’s Cross.”

“I do?”

“Of course! Why ever would I tease you about something like that?” She nudged him, and let out a laugh.

“Oh- oh, I see!” Martin forced out a laugh, feeling his face flush pink again.

“You will have your medals tomorrow,” Theresa promised with a grin, as they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room. “Goodnight, Martin. I’ll see you later.”

“Good- goodnight, Theresa,” stammered Martin, as Theresa slipped into the Slytherin common room.

* * *

 

Martin hadn’t fully realised how tense he was until he reached the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room and was instantly accosted by a sudden, Arthur-shaped blur, which repeatedly yelled the word ‘brilliant’ in his ear as it hugged him round the middle. Once he'd been released, Martin glanced down at his watch and saw that it was getting quite late. Arthur must have been standing outside the Ravenclaw common room waiting for him for at least a good half hour.

“Come on, Martin, everyone’s waiting!” Arthur tugged impatiently on Martin’s sleeve.

“R-really? Everyone?”

“Yeah! All the Ravenclaws are really excited that someone from their house is Triwizard champion! Well, a couple of the Seventh Years are a bit huffy about not getting picked, but that’s all.”

Martin felt his chest puff out a little at that. “Well then, I’d better not keep them waiting.”

When he ducked through the entrance to the common room (after answering the riddle correctly on his first attempt, which he had to admit he was quite proud of) a great cheer went up from what looked like the entirety of Ravenclaw house. A Fifth Year Martin hardly recognised slapped him on the back, and one or two of the First Years were actually bouncing up and down. Martin flushed pink, a grin spreading over his face. He was instantly surrounded by a torrent of voices, all clamouring over each other, asking different questions and piping up with their own comments.

“How does it feel?”

“I didn’t even see you enter!”

“Honestly, you looked like you were about to faint when they announced it.”

“D’you think you’ll win?”

“You’d better win this thing for Ravenclaw!”

Martin opened his mouth, trying to work out who to answer first, when there was a clattering noise at the entrance, and Karl toppled into the common room, his arms laden with sweets, chocolate and assorted fruit juices.

“I come bearing food,” he yelled. He dumped everything down on the table by the fire, which was immediately surrounded by a swarming mass of students.

The next couple of hours were a blur of questions, junk food and festivity, which left Martin feeling entirely overwhelmed, though not, he thought, in a particularly bad way. The celebrations only began to draw to a close past midnight, when Professor Shipwright, the Head of House, heard the racket from his office and poked his head into the common room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said mildly, “as exciting as this evening has been, and-” He trailed off momentarily as his eyes fell on the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw in the centre of the room, “-as fetching as Rowena looks in that party hat, I think it might be about time to wrap it up now, don’t you? And Arthur, your mother will have my head if I don’t send you back to your own common room.”

“Righto. Bye, chaps!” Arthur waved Martin goodbye and ducked out of the common room, whistling cheerfully to himself.

"I'm going to be back in fifteen minutes," said Professor Shipwright, "and if you're not all in bed by that point, I have a box of Flobberworms that need babysitting. Am I making myself quite clear?"

There was a vague grumble of assent from the Ravenclaws, and Professor Shipwright left, smiling to himself.

Even with the threat of the deadly dull Flobberworms to look after, it took a while for everyone to begin wend their way towards the dormitories. Several students were just abandoned in the common room, where they were sleeping curled up in armchairs. Martin himself collapsed into bed at one in the morning, still fully clothed in his uniform. He gazed up at the ceiling as his dorm-mates got into bed, the quiet sounds of their voices washing over him. He could still feel his heart pumping hard, but the shock of the evening was beginning to fade, to be replaced by little sparks of pride.

Out of all the students in Hogwarts who’d entered their names, the Goblet of Fire had picked _him_. _He_ was the Hogwarts champion, _he_ was the best their school had to offer. Even better than Douglas Richardson.

He lay awake for a few minutes, a warm glow alight in his chest as he let all the emotions and shock of the day seep out of him. He smiled, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest slow, as his eyes drifted shut and sleep claimed him.

* * *

 

If only the rest of the Hogwarts students were as pleased as the Ravenclaws that Martin had been picked as champion. Martin could feel their eyes burning into his back as he walked down from Ravenclaw Tower to the Great Hall the next morning. Their stares and whispers followed him through the hallway, until he almost wished he could melt away into insignificance again. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand it if they kept this up all weekend. His stomach twisted unpleasantly as he caught the tail end of a hushed conversation as he was entering the Great Hall.

“-never even heard of him before.”

“I know, me neither. But my brother’s in his Transfiguration class, says he couldn’t even manage a Switching Spell.”

“Seriously? He’s not going to last ten minutes.”

“I know, he- Wait, shhh, here he comes.”

Martin hurried past them, his head lowered and his eyes focused determinedly on a point on the ground ahead of him. He sank down next to Arthur at the Hufflepuff table, studiously avoiding eye contact with any of the other Hufflepuffs. From the uneasy silence at the table, he had a nasty feeling he’d interrupted another conversation about Triwizard Tournament. He pulled over a box of cereal under the pretence of wanting to pour himself a bowlful, and arranged the box in front of him so it hid him nicely from view. He poked the cereal around the bowl with his spoon, watching it become more and more soggy until the flakes started to disintegrate. Even as normal conversation resumed between the Hufflepuffs, he found he didn't have much of an appetite.

“You’re very quiet, Arthur,” he said eventually.

“No I’m not,” Arthur said quickly, before lapsing into wordlessness again.

Martin let the silence hang between them for a moment, then looked up. “What have people been saying about me, Arthur?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Arthur seemed to be taking great pains not to make eye contact with Martin, and his face was turning red. “Nothing much, anyway. I mean, they’ve been saying a bit, but really nothing you have to worry about.”

“Arthur…?”

“Well, they- I mean- It’s nothing really, it’s just people being silly, I think, but…”

“Go on.”

They think you cheated,” Arthur blurted out. “Some of them are saying that they can’t see why you’re the Hogwarts champion, so they think you must have done something to the Goblet.”

“I see,” said Martin tightly. He looked away, not wanting Arthur to see the tears burning at the backs of his eyes, and blinked rapidly.

“It’s not many people though, Skip, not really,” Arthur said desperately. “Most people think it’s brilliant. I think it’s brilliant. Anyway, you’ll show them you didn’t cheat, you’ll be great!”

Martin coughed a couple of times, sniffing. “Yeah, thanks, Arthur.”

Of _course_ people thought he’d cheated. He should have seen it coming. A lump began to form in his throat. He shouldn’t have let himself get swept away in the excitement of last night; he should have known it wouldn’t last. He surreptitiously rubbed a hand across his eyes, wiping away the few bitter tears that had spilled out over his cheeks. God, he was never going to last in this tournament.

Arthur had gone quiet again. That was always a bad sign.

Slightly apprehensive about what he might see, he turned towards Arthur, and found him engrossed in the front page of the Daily Prophet, which an owl had just dropped next to his plate. His mouth was hanging just a fraction open, his brown eyes wide.

Martin frowned. “What are you looking at?”

Arthur jumped. “Nothing! Just the Daily Prophet. I get it every day, Mum got me a subscription for my birthday.”

“You get the paper?” Martin said, distracted for a moment. “I didn’t know you liked to read the news.”

“I don’t much, the stories are usually too sad. But Mum thought I ought to read the news a bit, and anyway, I like looking through the pictures.” Arthur perked up slightly. “Last week, there was this sweet cat, the wizard who owned it fell off his broom and the cat-”

“Yeah, that’s great, Arthur, but what exactly was on the front page that was so riveting?”

Arthur, in a surprising display of sneakiness, had made a valiant effort to hide the Daily Prophet behind his pumpkin juice while they’d been talking. The attempt was slightly ruined when his hand collided with the glass and almost knocked it over. Martin reached over, snatching up the newspaper from the table. The headline read, in bold, sweeping letters, ‘Triwizard Champions Announced’. Beneath it was a photo of Martin, Theresa and Andrei. It must have been taken just as Martin was entering the room, because the bulk of the moving photo was taken up by a frazzled-looking Martin stumbling on a loop, over and over again. Off at the side, Theresa bit her lip, her eyes glittering with amusement, while Andrei studied the floor, his arms folded across his chest.

“They were quick off the mark getting this published,” said Martin. “They could have waited for a nicer photo…”

His attempt at humour fell rather flat.

“They must have been just as excited about it as I was.” Arthur made a grab for the paper, but Martin held onto it, his eyes skimming over the text. “Do they- do they say nice things about you?” Arthur added hopefully.

“Not exactly…”

_The contestant for Hogwarts, Marvin Crieff_ -

“They can’t even get my name right!”

- _does not cut an imposing figure. His pale face and slight form are not what one might expect from a Triwizard champion, but then, this contest has never been one to stick within the bounds of the tried and tested. It will be fascinating to see how Marvin responds to the challenges of the tournament, and to find out what hidden talents he has buried beneath his humble façade._

“Oh, God… I’m going to die.”

“Don’t be silly, Martin, of course you’re not.” Arthur sounded less than convinced.

“They think I have hidden talents! I don’t have any hidden talents! All I’ve got is-” Martin broke off, gesturing furiously at his own body, “-this! And they don’t seem to think that’s good enough.”

“Yeah, but you’ll prove them wrong, Skip! Anyway, I’m sure you’re at least as good as the other two.”

Martin glanced back down at the article. He could feel his face paling as he read on. “Oh, God,” he muttered again.

Arthur peered over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Look at this! Theresa’s the daughter of the French Minister for Magic, and apparently she’s pretty much single-handedly raised her six younger siblings at the same time as keeping up with her schoolwork.”

“Wow, that’s great!”

“Not for me, it isn’t. And Andrei Dobrev, the boy from Durmstrang, he got moved up a year and still managed to get the Bulgarian equivalent of thirteen Outstandings in his O.W.L.s… And he seems to have about sixteen extra-curricular activities going on as well. _I_ can barely manage Quidditch.”

Arthur had gone a little wide-eyed with amazement, which only added to Martin’s growing panic.

“How do they even know all this stuff about the others?” he exclaimed. “They get great long paragraphs about all their achievements, and I get comments like-” His eyes flitted over the article again, “-‘thin and pasty’. They didn’t even mention that I’m Quidditch Captain!”

“Well there you go, Skip! There’s lots of brilliant stuff about you that they don’t know.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Like…” Arthur had his thoughtful expression on. He bit his lip, frowning off into the distance, before his face brightened again. “You’re really good at remembering stuff. I can never remember all the facts and things that we need in exams, but you’re great!”

That actually did help a little, until Martin remembered that the Triwizard tasks were not in fact going to be theoretical papers, but difficult, dangerous, practical challenges. His heart sank again.

“I don’t think I’m very hungry today,” he said shortly, dropping his spoon into his untouched bowl of cereal. “I’m going to go to the library and get some homework done instead.”

Without waiting for Arthur’s reply, he stood and hurried out of the Great Hall, steadfastly ignoring the hushed whispers that followed him. He didn’t stop until he reached the library, his head bowed and his satchel pulled in against his stomach as he walked. It was only when he was safely encased in a spot near the back of the library, hidden between two bookcases with a roll of fresh parchment spread out over his knees, that he allowed himself to breathe more freely.

For a few hours, Martin lost himself in his essay on the uses of wormwood in household potions. It was just difficult and frustrating enough to distract him from the impending tournament. Soon enough, the floor around him was littered with thick, leather-bound books, which sent clouds of dust into the air that left grey streaks on the sleeves on his robes and made him sneeze. He frowned, as he struggled through long, difficult passages on the interactions of wormwood with other common ingredients, and the resulting fusion of magical powers. Martin bent down over the parchment, quill in hand, and gradually began to fill it up with lines upon lines of thin, slanted writing.

He was glaring down at the page, where he’d accidentally smudged a few lines with the side of his hand, when he heard a dry cough ahead of him. Martin’s head jerked up sharply, and his eyes fell on Douglas Richardson, who was leaning languidly against a bookcase at the end of the aisle, one eyebrow raised. Martin quickly bent to move his parchment and books off of his legs, and stood, raising himself up to as close a height to Richardson’s as he could manage. The effect was slightly ruined by the fact that he had to tilt his chin upwards to make eye contact with Richardson. Judging by the slight twitch at the corner of Douglas’ mouth, this was something he had noticed too.

“Well, well,” said Richardson. His eyes flicked across the mess of books and parchment at Martin’s feet. “I didn’t realise I’d come at such a bad time. Is this your homework, or the ruins of a Great Library Battle? Perhaps I’d better come back later…”

Martin drew himself up to an even fuller height, doing his best not to look mortified. “What do you want, Richardson?”

Richardson put a hand to his chest. “Why, you wound me. Can’t a man stop for a chat with a friend?”

“I’m not your friend,” Martin spat.

“And what a sorry state of affairs that is. Perhaps I want to rectify it.”

“Spare me the charade, Richardson, and tell me why you’re here.”

“Fine.” Richardson scrutinised him carefully. “What I want to know is, why did the Goblet of Fire pick you?”

Martin felt his jaw tighten. He swallowed. “You mean, instead of you?”

“I think that goes without saying.”

“Clearly it could tell who was the better student.”

Douglas let out a bark of laughter, which earned him a glare from the librarian. “I think we both know there’s a little more to it than that.”

“If you’re implying that I somehow cheated-”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“But you- you were thinking it. Like everyone else in this school.”

“Of course not. Although I must say, if you did have some sort of scheme, I’m impressed. I rather wish I’d come up with it myself.”

Martin’s chest swelled with anger, the muscles in his jaw still clenched. “The Goblet of Fire is designed to choose the best candidate for the tournament; obviously, that was me.”

Richardson’s brow raised momentarily. “You really don’t know why you were chosen, do you?”

The backs of Martin’s eyes began to prickle again. “Is it- is it so impossible that I’d be chosen through my own merit?”

“Not _impossible_ , no. But probability would tend to be against it.”

“Of course,” he said thickly. He blinked back tears ferociously, for the second time that day. “That’s what you all think.”

“Martin,” said Douglas, his face suddenly sombre. The use of Martin’s first name sent a jolt of alarm through his chest. “If you didn’t cheat, then – and I want you to think about this very carefully – why did your name come out of the Goblet?”

For a moment, Martin couldn’t speak. “Are- are you implying that- that-?”

“I’m not implying anything, Martin, I’m serious.”

He drew in a slightly strangled gasp of air. “What makes you so sure that I couldn’t- that I wouldn’t be the champion? Just because you think you’re- you’re so much better than me!”

“Calm down, I never said anything of the sort!”

“No, of course not, you just repeatedly hinted that- that I’m not good enough!” There was a high, hysterical edge to Martin’s voice. “But you know what? You- you might swan about the school, th-thinking you’re so wonderful because- because everyone thinks you’re terrific, but maybe the Goblet could see past that! I do all my work, I do it on time, I’m a _good_ student. I’m a better student than you. I…” He trailed off.

“I’m worried about you, that’s all. I’m trying to help, Martin.”

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of going about it!” Martin’s voice shook. He attempted a derisive snort, which came out sounding more like a sob. “I think you’re just jealous! Jealous and bitter because you can’t bear the idea that I’m better than you at something, even though- even though I’m younger and- and not as popular, or good-looking.”

“Look, all I’m trying to say is that there’s something odd going on here. Surely even you can see that!”

“ _Even_ me?”

Richardson’s icy blue eyes pierced Martin. “If you want to fool yourself into believing that this is normal-”

Martin let out a choked noise of indignation.

“-then on your head be it. If you don’t want to accept my help, that’s your business.” He took a couple of steps forwards towards Martin, who jerked backwards. Richardson’s lip curled, and he shook his head. “All I’m saying,” he said slowly and deliberately, “is… be careful. If something strange is going on, and someone else is involved in this tournament, you could be in a lot of danger.”

Richardson turned on his heel without waiting for Martin to reply, and strode out of the library, his robes swishing behind him. Martin was left standing alone. He opened and closed his mouth several times, his chest tight and his shoulders rigid. His knees trembling a little, he sank down onto the floor, clutching onto the edge of a bookcase with one shaking hand. He wrapped his arms around his middle and leaned back on the wall, closing his eyes against the world. He had no idea what to think.


End file.
